


A.J.'s Annual Party

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Prick and Perforate [1]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, But still arty enough to irritate, Drunk Sex, Hand Jobs, I only listed all of that because I'm impressed with myself, Irredeemable Filth, M/M, Object Insertion, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Cops and Robbers in hell.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from a section in Naked Lunch, by William S. Burroughs.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Harry shouldn't be here. Though, there's no place he really should be. His night is blank, irritatingly so. If he were someone else, Harry would say that he's looking for trouble. Harry doesn't look for trouble, though. He's the sheriff; trouble's his job, and there's nowhere trouble isn't.  
“You shouldn't be here.”  
Turning around on his barstool, Hank says cheerily, “You got me, Officer,” putting up his hands.  
“You're not allowed to go to bars. I could violate your parole right now,” says Harry.  
“You could, but you won't.”  
He grabs Hank by the shoulder. “Come on. I'm taking you home.”  
“Saving me from myself?” Hank says with a smile.  
“Saving myself the paperwork,” Harry says, pulling Hank off of the barstool as Hank finishes his drink.  
Hank sets down his glass, and hits his hand twice against the bar. “On my tab.” The bartender looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't.  
He pushes Hank out of the Roadhouse, into the champagne glow of the lights in the parking lot. Though he's not drunk enough to need to be steered, Harry walks Hank all the way to his car, leans him against it like an object with no volition of its own. Hank puts out his hands, wrists up. “Don't you want to cuff me, Harry?” he asks.  
“Don't tempt me.”  
“Where are you taking me?” Hank asks, once Harry has him in the back of the car. “Are you gonna lock me up?” he slouches down in the seat, head falling back wearily, “Lock me up, and throw away the key, Harry?”  
“I'm taking you home.”  
“My home, or your home?”  
Hank's looking to outrage, so it's no use telling him that he's disgusting. “Your home.”  
“Just be careful not to wake up Norma,” Hank says, “You know she's an early riser.”  
“Shut up.”  
“This isn't the way home,” Hank says, sounding amused, “You wouldn't be planning to take me to some secluded locale and violate my civil liberties, would you, Harry?”  
“This way's shorter.”  
“There are no shortcuts in this town. Everything's a block away from everything else. You can look from anywhere in town, and see everything there is to see. It's like living in a panopticon,” Hank mutters, “You know what a panopticon is?”  
“I do,” says Harry.  
“Well, good for you,” Hank says brightly.  
“Here we are,” says Harry, pulling up in front of Norma's house, “I told you it was shorter.”  
“Come in for a nightcap?” Hank asks.  
“What about waking Norma?”  
Hank shakes his head. “That's not the question you should be asking.”  
Harry says nothing, but turns off the car, gets out, opens Hank's door for him.  
“I'll bring something out for us,” Hank says, “We can drink in the garage.”  
Harry doesn't protest. He doesn't even ask himself why he's still there. Of course, he could just drive off, but that's too much like admitting it.  
Hank comes out. Half full bottle of whiskey. No glasses. In the garage, he takes a drink, and holds the bottle out to Harry. “You can wipe it off. I won't be offended.”  
Harry drinks. The chill flees from his fingertips.  
“You know that alcohol doesn't actually warm you up,” Hank says.  
“Oh, no?” Harry answers disinterestedly.  
“No. It causes a dilation of the capillaries in the extremities, pulling blood away from the internal organs. Which, in low enough temperatures, causes them to freeze.”  
“That sure is interesting,” Harry says blandly, and takes the bottle again. Maybe freezing a little would be good for him.  
“I think so,” Hank says.  
Alcohol either makes you stupid, or much too smart. You start thinking about things you wouldn't normally think about. Maybe not smart, but curious; suddenly, you have to know everything. Even things you already know. In twenty years, Harry's never cared to know why Hank threw the football game for Renault. There's nothing to know. It was money. There's no mystery, there.  
Yet, suddenly, there is. Like he told Cooper, Twin Peaks is different. It makes them all different. There, you become either less or more like yourself. It's like being drunk. “Why'd you do it?” Harry asks. The second he does, he regrets it, and the second regret hits him, he realizes he doesn't actually care.  
“You're asking the wrong question,” Hank says again.  
“Well, why don't you tell me the right question to ask, if you know so much?”  
“The right question is, Why does it make you so angry? And if it truly makes you that angry, why are you here?”  
It's no use telling himself that he should leave. He should have never come here. He knew what awaited him, the way you know night's fallen, without having to look outside. It's something you feel. Your blood moves differently.  
“Do you want to punish me some more?” Hank asks casually. “I wouldn't blame you,” he says with a shrug.  
It's probably a set-up, Harry says: get Harry to snap, beat the shit out of him. There's probably a video camera hidden behind a crack in the wall.  
Hank shakes his head. “Not that kind of punishment.”  
Harry says nothing. It's like in a dream. You know you should move, and it's not that you can't, but you just... sort of want to see what's going to happen. You're not afraid, however horrible your fate might be. More than anything, you need to know. Harry drinks the last of the whiskey, sets the bottle on the floor.  
“I'll even turn out the light,” Hank says, and pulls the chord hanging from the ceiling.  
It's darker than dark. Darkness so complete that it's almost a solid thing, in between them, filling in the space between their bodies, until they've pushed it out, and there is none. Harry's drunk enough to let Hank kiss him on the mouth. All he can taste is whiskey, anyway, harsh and sweet, thickening movements into velvet. When he opens his eyes again, he finds that they've adjusted to the darkness, lessened by trickles of light coming in from outside, and from the house. Hank is visible, in shades of dark gray. Now, isn't that a pretty metaphor?  
What Harry thinks of metaphors, he expresses by grabbing Hank, very hard, between the legs, swallowing the sounds he makes with his other hand clamped onto the back of Hank's neck. It doesn't have the effect of putting him off, but of making him lean more thoroughly into Harry, holding onto him, now, leather jacket creaking as they move against each other in what's more like a weird fight than a passionate embrace.  
“Against the wall,” Hank says. It's a small space, so it's just a matter of falling in the right direction. It's a stupid, stupid thing to do, but Harry lets Hank get his back against the wall. He has his hands at Harry's belt; he could be pulling down his pants, or taking his gun. The way his hands move makes his intentions clear. It's with the ease of one used to doing this not just to himself but to someone else. Which shouldn't be shocking- it shouldn't be anything- but somehow, it is, in a liquid, convulsive way that hits Harry in the guts and south of there, and makes him, for a hot moment, hate his fucking self.  
It's always easier to hate the other guy, though. Especially if it's Hank, who was made for it. Hank sucks at his earlobe, bites it; makes a filthy suggestion in a whisper rough enough that Harry accepts without thought.  
“You have to turn around, though,” he says. In the dark, Harry can feel more than see him smile. “Are you sure you trust me?”  
“Shut up,” Harry mutters, facing the wall and leaning against it. He feels the heat of Hank's breath before anything else. It collides with the cold of the room, and Harry shivers. Hank's hands, rough, almost ragged in places. Then his mouth, drier than Harry expected. Friction where friction doesn't belong, tongue circling then probing. Under Hank's hands, holding him steady, he shakes. He lets his forehead rest against the wall, stuck between arousal and revulsion as Hank's mouth moves on him.  
“Turn around,” Hank says, and Harry does. Hank wraps his hand around Harry's dick. Licks the tip, slow and wet. Lets it slide into his mouth. Harry stays still, Hank operating on him with exacting slowness. Why won't he just get it over with? Harry tries to make a frustrated sound, but it comes out as a sigh. It feels good, so he lets himself do it again. Hank pulls back, does something with his tongue, works Harry with his hand.  
“Get up,” Harry says. Hank stands, and Harry pulls him in close, grabs Hank by the wrist and directs the movement of his hand. Presses his face into Hank's shoulder, inhales the smell of leather, cigarettes, alcohol, sweat. He's holding Hank against him when he comes, too wrapped up in how it all feels to think about what's actually happening, what they've done.  
What they're about to do. He feels soft, but he feels mean. It's like being drunk, twice over. Whatever it was, even if he didn't want it, Hank's always taken it. He'll fight. But not too hard. It's almost like it just doesn't occur to him that he doesn't have to do it. He's easy.  
After some groping in the dark, Harry finds the bottle, takes off the cap and the metal ring around the mouth. Somehow, Hank knows what's going to happen. Even if he doesn't, he lets himself be moved around, put into position. As the neck of the bottle goes in, Hank gasps, but makes no complaint. It slips out again easily, and then, back in. Hank's head falls forward, his mouth opening, a rigid 'O'. Harry fucks him with the bottle until it's not enough. When he pulls it out, Hank gasps again. Harry sticks his fingers in his mouth, and then, with some effort, into Hank. Breathing heavily, Hank starts, tightening around Harry's fingers.  
Hank's breathing's filling up the room. Filling up the darkness. Harry fucks him until he comes, holding his dick but not moving his hand. He relaxes, and Harry removes his fingers. All at once, fatigue comes upon him. He's heavy, he's sinking, but he can't drive home. Nor can he remain here. He can't go anywhere, like this. Hank is all over him. He's all over Hank. It's like a crime scene. Anyone who walks through it gets the evidence on themself. As they do, they add to the existing evidence- in a way, they become part of the crime.


End file.
